I’ve never been drunk, but this is what I imagine a hangover would feel like. I’m only the awareness of my battered body and a bed, how much I don’t want to wake up feeling this horribly sick. My stomach’s churning like I might vomit, and I really hope I don’t, because I can’t remember why I’m waking up feeling sick. I’m not even sure I know whose bed this is. I hope it’s mine, if I’m going to puke all over it.
Any number of terrible reasons to feel sick, and I’m thinking of them all as I try to think of what the last thing is I remember. I come up with mostly murky memories of the hospital, so maybe this is food poisoning, except for the sharp sting in my eyes, throbbing ache in my head. A repulsive bleach taste on the back of my tongue is what reminds me of the swimming pool — of the summoning. Of Cain.
I push upright, realize quickly Cain is nowhere in sight. The muffled rush of the shower tells me where he must be, if I vaguely remember him carrying me down a long hallway last night. I desperately want to say I can trust a memory of being carried by Cain.
Speaking is a dry torture. “Cain?” It’s mouthing it only, no sound at all.
I try to swallow together moisture. I’ll take a hangover for the drugs wearing off enough that I’m keeping actual thoughts together. I’m desperate to remember anything else that I can about last night, everything that’s happened since Cain found me. My memories are a scrambled, foggy mess, but Cain found me. He’s here.
In my memory of being carried, I was dressed. I’m still dressed, in the very same clothes. Shapeless grey sweatpants and an equally boxy, bland t-shirt to match. No underwear, and I’m on top of the bed. I’m not even under the blankets. It’s the other bed that’s rumpled, sheets tossed back and pillows scattered.
The alarm clock on the nightstand tells me what the drawn curtains don’t, which is that it’s a little past eight in the morning. I wonder if the hotel has free breakfast, which is an absurd thought to have when I need to find Cain — I need to confirm it’s really him, and not Marcia’s dead body.
I force myself out of the bed, though it’s a slow effort with lots of long pauses. The vertigo and nausea are probably from the shock of quitting my meds cold turkey, or maybe it’s from all that swallowed chlorine. I vaguely remember coughing up pool water, Cain’s rumbling laughter accompanying the slap of his hand on my back. In comparison, my hypothermic dive at the lake seems pleasant. This disastrous summoning has left me feeling wrecked, even without the drug hangover.
I’m somewhat loopy, but I feel light-headed and silly like with a cold, rather than wrung out like a dishrag, dead-brained worse than Marcia’s rotting corpse. Horrible memories of interacting with Cain while he was possessing her rise to the surface of my thoughts. I try to dismiss them, before the room-spinning nausea worsens.
“Cain?” It’s a sandpaper-rough whisper, I’m sure he can’t hear me over the shower. Assuming he’s in there. Assuming the summoning worked, but I can’t imagine why a corpse would need to take a shower. I don’t want to imagine a corpse taking a shower.
I keep a hand on the wall for balance as I stand in the entry, stare at the partially-closed bathroom door. What if it’s not Cain, what if it’s the corpse? What if all my memories are wrong, or what if this is an exceptionally vivid dream? I’m disoriented enough for this to feel like one, or perhaps everything that happened since leaving Cain on the Otherside was a dream, a nightmare of heartbreak and fear.
Louder, voice cracking with the effort. “Cain!”
The water cuts off. A man’s voice calls sharply, “Abel?” It sounds like him, snarling and harsh, demanding, definitely Cain’s voice. I hear the fast metallic slide of the curtain hooks over the bar. The door jerks open.
Cain appears dripping wet and soapy, streaks of white foam dribbling over his shoulders and arms. His dark hair hangs in heavy clumps, it plasters over his forehead to nearly obscure the furious plunge of his scowl. He’s ready to hit something, murder someone, I think I scared him with shouting. The quick dart of his gaze takes in the closed and chained door, the empty room. The tight fury of his expression eases when he sees we’re alone.
It’s really him. He’s here. I can’t stop staring at Cain’s body. His living, breathing, punk rock idol body. He’s not a corpse, not a suicidal girl with mousy brown hair, a pinched face, dark-circled eyes starting to decay. He’s flared nostrils and a gleaming glare, lean muscles and dusky-tan skin, black body hair with clinging water droplets.
I don’t even know what to say, what to do, it’s such a shock to see Cain. The cuts are healed on his arms, they’re gone entirely, he’s head-to-toe unblemished skin. He looks just as he did when I pulled him from the lake, only magnitudes warmer. Behind him thick steam pillows the air and fogs the mirror.
Cain eyes me warily. “What?” It’s rude, patronizing, neither amused nor annoyed. Cain seems almost concerned as he asks, “You didn’t open the closet, did you?”
That tells me where Marcia’s body must be. My skin crawls at the idea of a corpse in the room. I recall too vividly what she looked like, both with and without Cain possessing her. I flick a quick look to the shut closet door before glancing up at Cain. He’s watching me with a frown, equal parts frustrated and worried. He thinks something’s wrong. He thinks something’s wrong with me, specifically, something he can’t help me with since the problem’s in my head.
Cain doesn’t realize I’m tongue-tied with nerves and not drugs. He thinks I’m zoned out like I was yesterday, and remembering all that mushy grey not-actual memory of being sedated is horrendously uncomfortable. It’s as uncomfortable as the feel of these shapeless grey sweats, as not knowing what to say. I have to say something. I can’t keep staring at Cain, I have to say something to him.
“You’re real. You’re here.”
Blurts right out of me, I can’t stop myself from saying something stupid. Cain shouldn’t look surprised I’m saying something stupid. It was weeks and weeks of doubting myself, being made to question my sanity by virtue of being labeled insane, and then medicated into submission when I refused to break.
I’ve surprised Cain enough that he blurts out something obvious in return. “You’re awake.” A hasty, jagged sneer wipes the relief from his expression.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. I woke up feeling awful.” Each word burns my throat raw. There’s nothing to swallow, but I try.
Cain smirks and takes a step of retreat into the bathroom. He turns on the sink. “I bet. You swallowed half the pool, dumbass.”
Cautiously I follow Cain into the bathroom as he gets back into the shower. He pulls the thick plastic curtain closed. I look to the running faucet and realize it’s Cain’s way of offering me a drink. There are two plastic-wrapped cups beside the sink to use. That both cups are still plastic-wrapped makes me curious if Cain’s been drinking straight from the faucet. It seems like something he might do.
I spot my underwear draped over the towel bar above the toilet. It must’ve been soaked after swimming. I’m glad Cain didn’t make me sleep in wet underwear. I suspect he needed to wrangle me into my clothes after dragging me unconscious from the pool. I don’t have a memory of dressing myself, that’s for sure.
I drink the cool tap water slowly, taking small sips to let my stomach adjust. I’m not sure how much of the summoning last night I actually remember, before or after my near-drowning. I’m not sure how much of anything I remember of the last six weeks. I study my own reflection in the condensation-fogged mirror. I look like trash and know it, with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and pasty-pallor complexion. Suppose for being half-drowned and half-drugged, I look okay. Inside my head is a jigsaw puzzle of memory disassembled and shaken, maybe a couple pieces lost forever, but I guess I’m okay.
“Cain?”
Through the translucent curtain I see Cain turn some. The rough sound of his snarl lifts like a question.
I don’t even know where to begin, which question of the stored multitude to unleash first. I have so many clear-thinking thoughts that it’s overwhelming, exhausting. Now that I’ve satisfied my curiosity about Cain, I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep off the drugs. I’ll take feeling sick like this over being tranquilized into oblivion, but it’s a miserable trade all the same.
“Is Marcia’s body in the closet?”
Not a question I really need answered, nor one I couldn’t answer myself just by checking. I have no idea why I wasted a golden opportunity on a dumb question like that. I expect Cain to laugh mockingly and answer with thick, scornful sarcasm. Instead Cain hums agreeably and ducks his head under the shower spray.
I set the empty plastic cup on the counter. I find the sink much easier to stare at than the outline of Cain’s body in the shower. “I’ll shower when you’re done,” I announce. “Um, I’m going to lie down. I feel sick.”
“Mmhm,” Cain affirms. Half-distracted, maybe, or simply unconcerned. I’m not sure, it’s a strange response from Cain.
This entire exchange strikes me as odd. I don’t want to admit how disappointed I am that Cain didn’t offer to have me join him in the shower, even though the prospect is daunting for many reasons. Perhaps I’m more relieved than disappointed. It’s hard to say.
I’m equally unsure what to make of the two beds, that I woke fully clothed on top the bedding, whereas Cain clearly got cozy in the other bed without me. He just dumped me on the bed unconscious. A hard, difficult search of my memory pulls up the faint echo of a desperate promise, Cain wanting five minutes from me for the summoning in exchange for the rest of the night.
I suppose Cain kept his word. He took me back to the room and left me alone. And I might’ve lost consciousness, but I didn’t drown. I’m definitely alive for everything to hurt this much.
I find the television remote and put on a morning news program, anything to help distract me from how awful I feel. Lying down helps with my headache a fractional amount, closing my eyes helps stop things from spinning sideways. The water I drank forms an uncomfortable lump in my sore stomach.
I try to focus on the positive, which is I’m not drugged anymore, and that Cain’s with me. Either one of those facts thrills me, and having both of them is almost too good to be true. There’s even a hot shower and bed for Cain. That’s nice. I bet this was a nice summoning for him.
“Abel.”
Rough-callused heat cups my cheek. A soft growl demands again, “Abel. Hey.”
Did I fall asleep? I must have. I open my eyes to find Cain leaned over me, expression tense. For a split second I’m confused about everything, including why I’m in a hotel room. I push to my elbow and flash my gaze to the television. It’s the same morning show, I couldn’t have been out long.
Cain pushes my bangs out of the way with the flat of his hand. His palm presses to my forehead. He feels at my neck, presses the back of his hand into my cheek, and then feels again at my forehead.
“You’re sick.”
The snarled words are somewhat questioning. I realize it’s an actual question, the more intently Cain stares at me with his hand plastered to my forehead.
“Am I?” His hand withdraws, and I replace it with my own. I feel okay, my skin’s cool and dry. “Do I have a fever?”
I take in the frustrated twist of Cain’s scowl and realize he doesn’t know, he has no idea, he’s asking me.
“I don’t think I have a fever,” I tell him. “I think it’s just, um, a – a hangover? From the drugs I was taking at the hospital. They’re wearing off.”
I mean this to be reassuring, but Cain’s frown deepens. I make an effort to smile. Maybe that will reassure Cain I’m okay. The line of my smile wavers when I realize Cain’s naked, fresh-clean from the shower, and sitting exceptionally close to where I’m curled on the center of the bed.
I’m already feeling nervous even before Cain orders, “Give me your clothes.”
Carefully I sit all the way upright. I glance from Cain to the door, from Cain to the tightly drawn curtains, from Cain to the other bed. My fingers play along the hem of my t-shirt without lifting it. I’m scared to ask Cain why he wants my clothes. Specifically why he wants them off my body, but I can guess. I can guess why Cain wants me naked.
Well, that’s okay. I guess that’s okay, even if I feel sick and gross inside and out. I didn’t get a shower after nearly drowning, my skin feels dry and tight from the chlorine, same as my eyes and hair, my sinuses are rubbed raw from puking up all the pool water I swallowed. I’m not sure when was the last time I brushed my teeth, probably yesterday at the hospital. But if Cain wants me naked in the bed now that he’s had a hot shower, I guess that’s okay.
The summoning might have hurt him, maybe he’s hurt like before. Maybe it wasn’t nice for him like I thought. I glance at Cain. No squiggly line of pain between his brows. He’s not hurt. He seems impatient. I’m not sure this is okay, but I’m scared to tell Cain that. I’m scared if I say no he won’t care, so maybe it’s easier just to say yes. Slowly I slip the t-shirt over my head.
Cain takes the shirt from me. He disappears into the grey fabric and appears as a damp, dark head and stretching limbs. Cain settles the t-shirt into place over his chest. It fits him better than it fit me.
“Alright, what do you want?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“For breakfast,” Cain says. Like it’s obvious.
“Oh.” Shaky, relieved laughter titters out of me. “O-oh, right. Breakfast. Okay.”
I slip out of the sweatpants and hand them to Cain as well. The fold of my legs and arms provides nothing for modesty. Cain seems unconcerned. He barely seems interested. There’s no leering suggestion in the way he looks me over, only that same impatient scowl.
“You’re staying here.” Cain puts on the sweatpants, which don’t especially fit him, but the elastic waist and shapeless tube legs easily accommodate his taller, wider frame.
“Okay.” I’m not about to insist I walk naked through the hotel lobby to check out the breakfast buffet. “Um, my stomach hurts, so maybe just … some toast?”
Cain nods, firm and intense like my breakfast order is serious business. “I’ll scope the place, while I’m out.” He sounds questioning, despite the bossy tone.
My response is the same compromise between declaring and asking. “Okay?”
Cain rises from the bed and gives me a quick once-over. “I’ll get you clothes.” His head turns to take in the open bathroom door, the spill of light into the entry. “And more towels.”
“Could you get me a toothbrush? And toothpaste?”
“Sure.” Cain shrugs. Surely it’s my imagination that he seems eager to ask, “Anything else?”
“Um.” I try to think quickly. My thoughts aren’t a slow, syrupy drip like they were before, but I’m not firing on all cylinders and know it. There must be something else I want Cain to bring me. I look around the room like that might provide me with an idea. My gaze settles on the closet door. “Are we staying here a second night?”
Cain follows my gaze. His shoulders lift and lower. “Unless you got someplace better in mind.”
I shake my head slightly. I don’t, not right now at least, and it’s exhausting to think I might have to come up with a place later. I’m not ready to think about what comes next. I’m barely managing the present moment. That I haven’t thrown up yet is my top accomplishment this morning. I don’t want to think about needing to accomplish more than that.
Cain snags the room key from the desk. “Don’t open the door. Got it?”
“Okay.” I offer Cain a smile to assure him I’m listening, I’ll do what he says, he doesn’t need to worry. I’m not about to run away from him or let myself get caught by the police.
Cain nods. He slides the chain from the door. The do not disturb card dangles from the outside handle already, Cain checks it anyway, makes certain it’s secure. He sweeps his gaze over the room one last time, like there might be some danger lurking despite his vigilance, and then he steps into the hall. He pulls the door closed. I bet he listens for the tell-tale mechanical whirl before leaving. I remember him figuring out how the lock worked.
I’m not about to declare myself an expert or anything, but I think I’ve gotten a little better at understanding Cain. At understanding everything, really, about him being a demon and me being a necromancer. It’s hard to adjust and remember that, after all that time in the hospital. It’s hard to remind myself that it’s okay, I don’t have to be sacred it’s not real. I’m getting my life back like I wanted.
Since I’m already naked and it’s available, I decide to take a shower. Cain’s left a path of destruction through the tiny toiletry selection. The bottles only have miniscule amounts left. I should have thought to ask him about more shampoo. He used nearly the entire bar of soap, too. I wonder how many hot showers he took.
As I stand there working lather into my hair, I wonder what Cain else wants. In the beginning he wanted to know my name, I gave him my name. He wanted a body, I gave him a body. He wanted a hot shower and a bed, but he managed to acquire that for himself more or less without my help. It’s a bit bleak to realize Cain may not have a use for me anymore. I’m not sure what else I could give him, what he might need from me. Besides the obvious, which suddenly doesn’t seem so obvious.
I needed his help getting out of the hospital. I need his help to get breakfast and find clothes to wear. If Cain never returns to this hotel room, I’m stuck fashioning a toga out of damp towels. I’m stuck waiting to be found by housekeeping or management. I’ll probably get arrested because of the rotting corpse shoved in the closet.
When Cain gets back, maybe I’ll ask him if we can switch rooms. Marcia can have her own room. Maybe we can find a way to give her body to her parents for burial, they’d probably appreciate that. I need to stop thinking about dead things, especially the dead thing Cain used to find me. I’ll lose my accomplishment of not throwing up if I keep thinking about corpses.
I feel so much better after showering that it’s a bit silly. Being clean just feels so good. Every fresh-scrubbed inch feels more like me, inside and out, from soft tousled hair to wiggling toes. I drink another cup of water while I stand at the sink to blow-dry my hair. Afterward the ache in my stomach seems prepared to accept food, which I take a good sign.
I’m burrowed under the blankets with the television off, the room dark and quiet, not exactly asleep when Cain returns. The mechanical whir of the lock and noise of the door latch brings my eyes open, lifts my head from the pillow. The room’s small enough I spot him right away, I don’t have to call out to make sure it’s him.
Cain grins something feral and wild when he notices me watching. “Hey, sweetheart.” He’s cradling an armful of pastries and toting a suitcase. Shoved under his arm is a stack of towels. Cain dumps the suitcase and towels by the door, in the already narrow and crowded entry.
I sit up as Cain gets nearer. He’s brought the toast I asked for, wheat and white both, along with three different muffins and a croissant. He stacks the assorted baked goods onto the nightstand and eyes me suspiciously while he does it.
“You feeling better?” he asks.
Demands, really, in such a sharp and hostile way, like he’s accusing me of something even though all I’m doing is smiling. A giddy, stupid smile. I’m admiring him, actually, overcome with gratitude that he returned so quickly. I was pretty sure he would, but it’s nice all the same. Part of me was scared he might not.
“Yeah.” I clear a thick clog from my throat and try again. “Yeah. I took a shower.”
The snarl Cain makes in response seems pleased, I think. He pulls from his pocket a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. Cain dumps both into my blanket-covered lap. From the other sweatpant pocket Cain pulls out a handful of crumpled white paper rectangles.
When they’re summarily dumped into my lap, I realize Cain’s brought me an assortment of individually packaged pills. There’s ibuprofen, antacid tablets, cold and flu tablets, something labeled non-aspirin pain reliever and then aspirin itself. A grab bag variety of medicine, probably acquired from the front desk at the same time as the toothbrush and towels.
I look up from the tumble of supplies and smile. “Thanks, Cain. This is perfect, thanks.”
The rough tussle of his hand messes up my hair. “Eat something,” he says. Cain points at the crowded nightstand. Unspoken is the assurance I’ll feel better if I do. My stomach agrees with Cain, it rumbles gentle encouragement at the idea of eating. I pick up the blueberry muffin and start nibbling.
Cain returns to the dropped stack of towels. He disappears into the bathroom with them and then comes back to get the suitcase. He slings it onto the foot of the other bed.
“Did you steal that?”
Cain glances over as he unzips the suitcase. I’ve asked a very stupid question, according to Cain’s incredulous expression. Heat suffuses my cheeks. I flinch my gaze down to the blue-speckled muffin in my hands.
I’m aware that we’ve already broken several laws and will likely continue to do so, no matter how much I might want to insist otherwise. Cain doesn’t have any money, doesn’t have a car or even know where he is. Stealing a suitcase to acquire clothes was a fairly creative solution to the problem. I’m not sure I would have thought of it.
I watch quietly as Cain goes through the suitcase. I’m curious how he stole it, where he found it, but I don’t want to annoy him. I’m sure I won’t be able to think of anything clever if I do try speaking. It’ll just be more stupid questions. My sluggish thoughts can only focus on simple, basic things, like wondering if this muffin will stay down, or what kind of clothes Cain would buy for himself if given the opportunity. Probably not an argyle sweater, since he holds it up and then tosses it aside in disgust.
“Boring,” Cain grumbles. He holds up a pair of khakis and looks over at me. His eyes narrow. The khakis get tossed into a different pile than the sweater.
As Cain sorts through the clothes, I finish the muffin. I’m fairly confident it’s going to stay down, too, despite the pained struggle of my sore stomach. I stay hidden in the blankets for a few minutes before realizing I’m being silly, it doesn’t matter.
Cain glances over when I get out of bed. His gaze stays focused on mine, intense and unwavering, questioning. I hold up the toothbrush as a silent explanation. His attention goes back to the suitcase.
When I come out of the bathroom with minty clean teeth, Cain’s trying on some of the clothes. He’s tangled into a plain white undershirt, popping free of it as I watch. He frowns at the tight fit and turns at the waist, twists and flexes. There’s something horrifically familiar about watching Cain try on clothes. I watched him adjust the same way inside a corpse.
That muffin might not stay down after all, if I let myself think too much about the dead girl. I planned to ask Cain about the clothes, if there were any he thought might fit me, but I don’t want to linger on that side of the hotel room. Cain’s bed is nearest the closet, it’s right next to the closet.
The other bed, my bed, it’s next to the armchair and window. I scurry back to it, crawl eagerly under the covers. I burrow down tight into the pocket of warmth and huddle the blankets over my head. It’s a dumb, childish comfort like hiding from the monster in my closet. Precisely like that, I realize, only the monster is entirely too real.
I peek out from the covers. “Cain?”
His head turns. “Hmn?”
“What are we going to do about Marcia?”
Cain lowers the shirt in his hands. He looks from me to the closet. “Dunno,” he says. “Hadn’t thought about it yet. Got any fun ideas?”
He’s mocking me, I think. I’m not in the mood to be mocked, because I meant that question, and it wasn’t a stupid one. It’s a serious question, it’s one I would like him to take seriously. Maybe some of that shows on my face, maybe that’s why Cain’s grin slips. He starts to frown instead, a deep sideways scowl that doesn’t strike me as particularly angry or annoyed.
“You want her out of here?” Cain demands.
I hesitate briefly and then nod, quick and urgent. If that’s an option, then yes, I desperately would like the dead body removed from the room.
Displeased rumbling builds in Cain’s chest. “Fine,” he snaps. “Whatever princess wants. Close your eyes.”
So I won’t see him open the closet. He’s going to do it now, in the middle of the day? Just walk downstairs holding a dead body, carry it to the dumpster, or ditch it on a luggage cart? That doesn’t seem like a wise idea. That seems like a terrible idea.
“Wait,” I say. “Wait, what are you going to do with her?”
“Put her back where I found her,” Cain says. “Unless you got a better idea.”
I don’t, at all, I have absolutely no idea what to do with Marcia’s dead body. Returning her to the hospital seems like a great idea to me, on the surface at least. “Won’t they notice she’s, um.”
“Dead?” Cain gleams together a sly smile. “Sweetheart, that’s not my problem. She was dead before I arrived.”
“No, I mean, if you show up with her body, won’t you get in trouble?”
Cain laughs. Sharp, distinct amusement that leaves him chuckling. “Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere. She is. Getting her that far won’t be an issue, don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. I got this,” he boasts. His grin takes shape again.
Cain looks like he expects me to be impressed even though I have no idea what he’s talking about. That’s obvious, clearly I have no idea, Cain must realize that by now, except I don’t think he does. Cain assumes I know what I’m doing, what’s happening. No matter how many times I remind him, Cain thinks I have all the answers. His other necromancers did. They bossed him around, asked for a lot more than some toast and toothpaste.
Maybe that’s why he starts to deflate some, starts to scowl. I must not look suitably impressed. Perhaps I look like I’m doubting him because Cain insists, “You want her gone? I’ll get her out.”
I thought he didn’t even want to do this. He seemed unhappy about the fact I wanted Marcia’s body moved, until it became this weird jab at his ego. I’m not sure telling Cain I have full confidence in him would be helpful. I’d probably end up insulting him somehow.
“Okay,” is what I settle on saying. “Okay. Yeah. I want her gone.”
“Great.” He snaps it, peevish and short. “Close your eyes.”
I hesitate. The muffin seems solidly accepted at this point. I’m a little curious how Cain plans to do this, I suppose. “Do I have to?”
“Fuck no,” Cain scoffs and closes his eyes. “Do whatever you want, dumbass.”
His hand lifts. He turns in place and sits on the edge of the bed. I clutch the blankets under my chin, flinch my face into my knees, brace for whatever terrible thing to happen except nothing does. After a quiet, ominous wait Cain’s hand lowers. I’d accuse him of being overly dramatic if I didn’t already know better.
From inside the closet comes a thump. Cain’s lips twitch into a scowl. A second thump, a scraping noise — limbs against the wall, I realize, the dead girl’s body struggling to move.
Tremors shake through me as I bury my face tighter into my blanket-clad knees. I’m on the verge of sobbing. I lied. I don’t want the dead girl gone. She can stay in the closet, that’s fine, I’ll move.
I hear clawing, a soft snarl from Cain. The latch rattles, the door pushes along the carpet.
Panic lifts my face up. I’m looking for Cain, for escape maybe, for whatever stupid reason I look up and see her, the dead girl. I see Marcia and Cain, both of them. He’s sitting on the bed, eyes closed, she’s crawling her way out of the closet, eyes open.
I tangle my fingers into the blankets and swallow rapidly. Either vomit or a scream starts to choke from me, slips past my clenched teeth as a low, sick moan. “Nnn-no, no –!” Terror wins over revulsion, my whined protest lifts into a shriek. “Stop!”
Cain’s eyes snap open. The corpse flops.
I cover my eyes. Breath rushes from me in shudders. “Please, stop. Don’t do that. Don’t – don’t do that, please.” I bite hard on my lip to keep it from trembling as part of a wet, futile effort against tears. My voice wavers. “She can stay. In the closet, that’s fine. Please.”
Silence from Cain. The whole room’s silent compared to the fast thrum of my pulse, the quick slice of my breath as I wait.
“Sure.” Sarcastic, snarky just like the way he says, “Whatever Princess Abel wants.”
I realize Cain’s serious as I hear him shove the corpse back into the closet. Cain is entirely serious. He dumped cheap pre-packaged toothbrush and generic toothpaste into my lap, but I could have asked for diamonds. Cain would rob a store for me, get himself arrested or shot doing it. He’d be thrilled for the chance to kill for me. This demon expects me to command him. I’m a necromancer. He’s my demon, and he’ll do whatever I want.